


Put on the Costume

by xItOnlyMakesMeLaughx



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Delusions, Eventual Romance, F/M, Loneliness, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Possible smut, Slow Burn, Violence, cursing, mentions of self harm, possible triggering subjects, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xItOnlyMakesMeLaughx/pseuds/xItOnlyMakesMeLaughx
Summary: He longed to be in the light. To be loved and adored by someone. To become the man that people would laugh with and not the clown that people laughed at. She wanted to be in the dark. To hide away from the world in the shadows, to runaway from her past and the shame it carried.Neither had what they wanted. Both went on with their lives caged in their carefully crafted costumes to hide the pain that life had dealt them. But when they meet, things begin to unravel and the two learn what it's like to have someone truly see them for who they are.Monsters and all.(Not a reader-insert.)
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Original Character(s), Arthur Fleck/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter One: Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> For context, the story takes place a bit before the events of the movies starts. Hope you enjoy it!

He just wanted to feel good again.

Had he ever felt good?

Perhaps it was numbness that he wanted to feel.

Arthur's head rested on the back of the worn and stained sofa that doubled as his bed, watching the slim streams of smoke rise from his cigarette and spiral towards a mysterious cluster of brown spots on the ceiling. He ran his free hand down the side of his exposed chest, feeling his rib cage pressing through his skin. He wondered briefly if he got any thinner if his bones would start to cut through his skin? As he pondered the question Arthur rose the cigarette to his thin lips and took a deep breath of the menthol-flavored toxins. Now that felt good. He exhaled, allowing a fresh cloud of smoke to billow out of his mouth and float up to the ceiling. 

How long had he been sitting there doing this? Five minutes? An hour? Maybe three. He wasn't sure. Time didn't seem to matter to Arthur at the moment as he allowed his mind to wonder. All he knew was he was restless. It made him wonder if the medication he took was doing anything for him. 

Arthur peeled his head away from it's resting place and looked down at the coffee table, his eyes roaming over the various little orange bottles of medication he had, all were just about empty. He made a mental note to ask his social worker for refill prescriptions. Maybe if he felt brave enough he would ask if there was any chance he could get higher doses. 

Shifting forward Arthur snuffed his cigarette out in a glass ashtray, running a hand through his unruly brown hair he felt a wave of weariness come over him. He wasn't sure if it was the lack of sleep kicking in or if his emotions were about to take him down another dark, uncertain path. All he knew was he wanted to close his eyes. Shutting his eyes Arthur tempted himself with the thought of going back to sleep for a half-hour or so before he got ready for work. He could feel his muscles relax as he allowed himself to sink further into the soft cushions. 

Just as his senses began to dull down his mother's airy voice floated into his head.

"Happy?" Penny called as she shuffled out of her room. "Happy, are you awake?"

Arthur held back a groan and pried his heavy eyes open. He rolled his head onto his shoulder, looking at his mother with a forced smile. "Yeah, Ma. I've been awake for a while."

Penny responded with faint hum and nod of the head as she went to sit in her chair, glancing back at her son with furrowed brows as she observed his lack of clothing. "Aren't you cold?" She asked, involuntarily pulling at the collar of her bathrobe.

A weak laugh tumbled out of Arthur's mouth as he pushed off the sofa. "No, I'm fine. Do you want me to start the coffee?" 

Penny nodded as she got comfortable, grabbing the remote off the table to turn the television on while Arthur walked over to the pathetically small space that they called a kitchen. Arthur probably hated this section of their dingy apartment the most. The fridge never seemed to keep at its proper temperature causing the food to spoil faster than it should, the stove had one burner that didn't work and then there was the sink. Arthur despised the building's damn plumbing. As he started the morning ritual he turned the tap on, backing away as a gush of putrid brown water flowed out of the faucet. He held his breath and counted to sixty as he waited for the water to become clear enough to be passable to use for the coffee.

In the background, he could hear a news reporter droning on about the concerns citizens had about the garbage strike that had begun a few days ago. He heard people complain about how it was an inconvenience to them and how there were already piles of garbage beginning to accumulate on the sidewalks of the city. Before he could hear anymore Penny had flipped the channel onto another news station that was talking about the newest candidates for the upcoming election for Mayor.

"When do you think Thomas Wayne will join the race?" She wondered out loud. 

Arthur shrugged as he poured the coffee grounds in. "No idea, Ma." 

"He should. He's a good man, Happy." She said with conviction. "If he was Mayor we wouldn't be having any of the problems we're having now."

He mulled over her words, trying to decipher if she was referring to the city's situation or theirs. For some odd reason, after Arthur had been released from his latest stay at Arkham a few months ago, Penny had been on a campaign to gain the attention of Thomas Wayne, a man she worked for more than thirty years ago. At first, it had started with one letter a week and now it turned into a letter nearly every day, maybe two. Arthur didn't understand her reasoning in the slightest but every time he tried to counter her ideas with one of his own she would shut him down immediately.

"He would help us if he could understand how horrible our living situation is." She would say this as if it was a scientific fact. If Arthur pressed any further, she would just brush it off by saying; "Thomas Wayne is a good man, I can't explain it better than that.

Turning on the machine Arthur looked over his shoulder to the fragile form of his mother, her watery eyes glued onto the television like she was in a trance, forgetting everything else going around her including him. A bitter smile tugged onto the corner of his mouth. That's the way things had been for as long as he could remember. Penny, lost in her own reality while Arthur dealt with the crushing weight of the real world all on his own. Sometimes it made him wonder if she truly cared about him...

He quickly shook that notion out of his head. She did love him. She had to love him, Arthur told himself.

Because if she didn't care about him, who would?

"Can you believe the garbage union is on strike?" One voice muttered.

"Jesus Christ, can't people afford cars?" Another grumbled in a seat behind her.

A baby had begun to screech at the front of the bus soon after an ambulance whizzed by with its shrill siren blasting through the congested streets of Gotham.

Nicolette pressed her aching temple against the cool glass of the window of the cramped city bus, closing her eyes for a moment to collect herself. She felt a pressure building up in her chest, a burning sensation that she recognized ruefully. It felt like the bus was becoming smaller. The voices were getting louder. Was the world falling? Was she finally losing it?

The bus yanked to a rough halt, sending her and other passengers lurching forward. She blinked her eyes open and looked out the window to see a small stream of people getting off at the stop. She almost breathed a sigh of relief. One more stop and she'd be close enough to the social services building to walk the rest of the way. Nicolette wrapped her arms around herself and continued to look out the window as the bus began to move once more. The tall buildings of Gotham passed her eyes in a blur, each one dilapidated with filthy littered sidewalks in front of them, maybe with a neon sign or two on them to change things up. Gothamites wandered the streets, all trudging along as if the burden of life was pressing them into the filthy concrete of the city. Overhead the usual cloud of smog hung over the city, adding a dull grey cast to the already depressing sights.

Nicolette allowed her mind to wander to a different time, a time her father told her about when she was young, about how Gotham was once a roaring city of excitement and possibilities. He would go on for hours talking about the splendor of the theater district, of the dazzling lights upon the marquee and artful posters hung up on the buildings that would lure people in to catch a glimpse of whatever show or performance was going on that night. He would talk about the performers and singers he had seen, singing the praises of the talent that had been born during those golden days. But that had all changed. She worked in Gotham Square, the former theater district, at a run-down beauty salon painting nails for clients from every walk of life. All Nicolette could see now in the square were adult film theaters with unapologetic titles and posters gracing the streets, a scattering of empty storefronts as they all slowly went under, and an increase of vandals and hooligans prowling the sidewalks getting kicks out of terrorizing any weakling they could pick out. She wondered what her father would say now if he saw what had happened to this city? Yet again, she wondered if anything her father had said was ever true.

The bus came to a stop, snapping Nicolette from her mind. Quickly collecting her dirty messenger bag and held it close to her chest as she pushed herself into the aisle of the bus to join the line of people attempting to get out. She kept her eyes down as she shuffled forward. She almost felt like there was someone on that bus just watching her, their eyes burning into her and judging her for something she could not name. In reality, no one noticed her. 

Once out she took a deep breath through her nose, inhaling the fumes coming from the sputtering exhaust of the bus. She looked around her at the buildings that lined the streets like great trees of a concrete forest. It took a moment for her to get her bearings as she tried to block out the noise of the city. She had never been there before and she had only gotten basic directions from the doctor at the hospital. Nicolette gnawed her chapped lips as she made up her mind that it was to her right, slinging her bag over her shoulder she joined the stream of people and marched on to her destination. 

In a matter of minutes, Nicolette found herself staring at the revolving doors of Gotham's Social Services office. It was nothing worth noting if you weren't looking for it, it was a wide red-brick building only two floors high making it considerably shorter compared to the buildings next to it. The only eye-catching thing about it was the vibrant streaks of spray paint that adorned the building from a wide collection of graffiti and tags that had been left on it, some partly scrubbed off in a weak attempt to get the building back to its former image. 

After a couple of minutes of useless procrastination, she walked into the building with feet of lead.

As she entered her eyes were blinded by the glowing florescent white lights that hung on the ceiling, she blinked a few times to allow them to adjust before taking in the dismal interior. The walls were split between white tiles with specks of mold growing between the tiles and a dulling steel blue paint that had begun to flake off them. Around the room, cheap plastic chairs were lined against the walls, a few of them had an occupant lost in their minds or reading outdated magazines. There was the occasional coffee table with stained newspapers and ashtrays that no one had bothered to empty. As she stepped in further into the room Nicolette heard soft clicks and clacks of a typewriter. Looking to her right she saw a cutout in one of the walls where a receptionist desk was stationed. 

The young woman approached the desk as the woman seated behind it took no notice of her and continued to type away on a clunky typewriter. Nicolette paused once she reached the desk, shifting from one foot to another as she waited for the woman to take notice of her. A solid two minutes had passed before Nicolette cleared her throat to get the woman's attention.

The receptionist looked up at her, her black eyes were magnified by her large wide-rimmed glasses. She pursed her brilliant pink lips as she nudged her glasses further up her long nose. 

"How can I help you, Miss?" She asked, folding her hands together as she leaned forward slightly.

"Um...My name is Nicolette Black-"

"Can you speak up dear, I can hardly hear you."

Nicolette felt her face heat up and began to speak louder than she normally preferred. "My name is Nicolette Black, I have an appointment with Sharon Washington."

Silently the receptionist flipped through an appointment book, licking her finger with each turn of the page. Nicolette fought the urge to start tapping her foot as the woman took her time looking up her appointment. 

"Ah, yes. Miss Black." The receptionist confirmed. She stood up and leaned over the desk to point down the hall. "Keep going till you get to the fifth door on the right. She's almost done with her last appointment."

Nicolette nodded politely and went down the hallway. It was dim compared to the main room, the lights were fading in and out slowly as if they could give out at any second. Scattered next to the doors were the same plastic chairs that she saw a moment before. Nicolette took her time walking down the empty hall, reading the little nameplates, and spying into the other offices through the small square windows on the doors. In one office she saw a woman sobbing hysterically to a fat social worker who seemed to be dozing off. In another a social worker was rummaging through the cluttered file box in his office, smacking down papers in a heated rush. As she looked in she wondered what were their stories? Why were they here? Did anyone want to be here?

Nicolette had turned her eyes away from another office door just in time to catch the door to her left swing open with a harsh bang that echoed through the hall. She clutched her chest trying to steady her frantic heart as the front of a janitor's cart began to slowly roll out past the door, followed by an elderly man pushing the rear of the cart as he fiddled with a walk-man attached to his hip. He looked up for a brief second, giving her a cool nod before he continued to push the cart down the hall in the opposite direction. 

Nicolette took a deep breath. "Get your head together." She grumbled to herself as she resumed walking. 

Nicolette had walked down to the fifth door and read the cheap nameplate on the door; "Sharon Washington-Social Services Therapist". She sighed and took a seat, the chair squeaked under her weight. Crossing her legs she placed her bag in her lap and attempted to get comfortable.

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked up at the textured ceiling, her mind conjuring little images in the clusters of uneven bumps. In a moment of childish self-pity, she began to wish she was back at her apartment. Her first job at the beauty salon had left her with another headache from the hours spent in a small, poorly ventilated area that was filled with the pungent smell of nail polish and hair spray. And then, instead of being home resting for an hour or two, she would need to rush back to her apartment to prepare for her second job. 

Part of her attempted to look at this as a positive thing, that she was taking steps to become better, but that notion was soiled by the pressure and guilt that was laid on her by her aunt and uncle to insure she had gone.

The scene had begun to play out in her head before she could stop it. It was the day she had been released from Arkham, her second trip that year, her aunt and uncle insisting that they drive her back to her apartment so they could have a serious talk with her.

"Don't you want to get better?" Her aunt persisted from the front seat of the car. She had been applying her new red lipstick while watching Nicolette through the mirror of her compact.

Nicolette shifted around in the back seat, her eyes flicking back and forth between the window and their backs. She felt so small compared to them as she tried to find her voice to speak up for herself.

"Of course-" Nicolette began.

"You're twenty-seven," Her uncle chimed in. "You need to get a grip on your life. How do you expect to do anything if you keep having these 'attacks'?" He spoke the last word like it was a dirty topic.

Her aunt snapped the compact mirror shut and turned to Nicolette with an overly sympathetic smile, reaching out to take Nicolette's hand into her slim, boney one before she uttered a phrase she had been haunted by for a majority of her life.

"You don't want to end up like your father, now do you?" 

Then the squeal of a door brought her back to reality. 

"Wait here." A woman's voice spoke

Nicolette stood up suddenly, startling the woman as she came out of the office. She was an African American woman, her eyes and face were worn from weeks of overflowing work. She looked at Nicolette up and down before asking how she could help her.

"I have an appointment..." Nicolette spoke slowly hoping to jog the social worker's memory. 

After a moment Washington looked at her with realization with a soft 'ah'.

"Miss Black, correct?" Nicolette nodded. "I'm almost done here, I just need to grab something and we can get started with you. Okay?" She spoke briskly as she walked past Nicolette.

Nicolette opened her mouth to say okay but realized that it was pointless as Washington continued to walk away. Nicolette looked over her shoulder at the open door, she could hear someone shuffling around inside probably as bored as she was. She felt a sting of curiosity as she wondered who could be in there. Was it man? Woman? What were they here for? Are they crazy or just a bit out-there? 

Like a child getting ready to do something sneaky, she looked hesitantly down the hallway, checking to see if anyone was there. The only person in sight was the old man mopping the linoleum tiles of the floor in the main room, the sloshing of the wet mop echoing softly through the otherwise silent halls. Looking back to the open door Nicolette gave in, allowing her curiosity to win a battle against her normally anxious mind. Taking two small steps forward she stood in the middle of the door frame and looked into the office.

Peering into the room she noticed how cluttered it was, the walls were lined with shelves that had multiple folders and books placed on them, piles of boxes crammed into any corner or space they could fit into and stacks of files and papers litter the desk that was stationed in the middle of the small office. Amongst the chaos was a tall, lanky man with his back to her. His mustard yellow jacket stood out against the cooler color scheme of the office. Nicolette watched as he mindlessly swang one of his lean legs back and forth kicking the air, one hand in the pocket of his jacket as the other one held a nearly finished cigarette. He gracefully spun on one foot, turning just enough for her to see his profile. The word 'bird' popped into her mind as she studied his facial features.

The man ran his free hand through his slightly greasy hair as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. It was then he fully turned towards her, his eyes fixed on the floor before he noticed her in the doorway.

They both froze. It was like someone had pressed pause on a movie, leaving the characters stuck in the exact positions of the scene. The only thing that was moving in that moment was the streams of smoke that gently rose off the cigarette.

Nicolette involuntary shifted her gaze down to the floor before giving a nervous laugh, feeling as if she had been caught doing something wrong. As she looked back up to the man and gave him an odd sort of smile, the type that wants to be loose and lopsided but ends up having a strained appearance.

"Hi." She said, giving another nervous laugh. The man reacted with his own strained, polite smile and a barely audible, "Hello".

Nicolette shifted from foot to foot, feeling the weight of the awkward atmosphere finally weighing down on her chest making her wish she had just sat in the chair minding her business. "Come here often?" She blurted out before she could think through that statement.

The man's lip twitched as he might laugh but quickly they snapped back into the former smile he had on. 

"I...I guess you can say that." He chuckled humorlessly as he sucked on his cigarette once more. Nicolette watched him, trying to gauge if there were any signs of irritation in his movements. The man did the same.

The man drew the cigarette from his mouth slowly and began to inspect it as he blew out a fresh cloud of smoke. "I'm Arthur." He said hesitantly, as he snuffed the cigarette out in an ash-tray on the desk. 

"Oh...I'm Nicolette." She replied.

"That's a nice name." She heard him say under his breath as he kept his eyes on the ash-tray. Arthur raised his head and tugged at the collar of his button-up shirt, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. 

"It sounds interesting...You're name." He quickly added. "Like it's...French or something..."

Nicolette chuckled to herself and nodded, her eyes moving to the speckled tiles on the floor. "Yes, it is. My father was from France."

"Really?" He asked, his hand moving up to his neck to massage it. 

"Yes...I've never been there of course, but he grew up there."

"Do you know any...?"

"Yes." She spoke before he could finish, silently hoping that he wouldn't ask her to speak any French. Once her co-workers from both of her jobs found out she could speak French they had bothered her for weeks to speak it, teasing her now and then with poorly pronounced words they had learned from different forms of media.

Arthur bobbed his head as he hummed to himself, his gaze shifting off to the side towards a pile of boxes as he continued to massage his throat with increasing force. 

"I wish I could have learned another language." He said absently. "So I could understand other people, y' know? The ones that might not know English that well or at all..." 

He stopped. 

And then a short high pitch cackle burst past his thin lips. Arthur smacked his hand over his mouth as another laugh forced it's way up. Nicolette was bemused by his actions but didn't quite catch on to the tension in his body.

"I get it," Nicolette said. "I kind of wish I knew something other than French. It's not quite useful in Gotham. The only people who seem to use it around here are either from private schools or know little bits to show off."

Even as she spoke Arthur's laughter persisted. Nicolette didn't know what to make of it. At first, she took it as him having an awkward laugh that he probably didn't like, most people were like that. But as it continued to increase in volume and severity Nicolette finally saw the pain in his eyes as he grappled to regain control.

She didn't know what to do. She felt pity for him, yet the laugh was so off putting that it made her afraid to reach out to him. She wasn't sure if he was having a mental break down or what. Her mouth felt like cotton now, her mind was drawing a blank on what she could say or do to try to get out of this situation. 

"Are-are you okay?" She asked. 

She took a step forward as Arthur shook his head rapidly, his free hand fumbling in his pocket for something. The laughter increased, nearly sounding like he was crying as his shaky hand pulled a laminated card from his pocket, holding it out to her. Nicolette looked at the card and then back to him. Arthur was avoiding all eye contact as he kept trying to choke the laughter back. Quickly she took the card from him and read the simple print.

Forgive my laughter, I have a condition.

More on the back.

That was all she could read before she heard footsteps approaching from the hallway.

Wordlessly, Washington passed her, scribbling on a yellow prescription pad. Tearing off the paper she went to Arthur, who's cackling had started to reduce into harsh coughs, and gave him the paper.

"This should be enough for two weeks." She said. "If you want to increase any of your medication I'd suggest calling your doctor."

Arthur nodded as he scrambled to get out of the room. Pushing past Nicolette he managed to whisper, "I'm sorry." 

Nicolette watched him speed down the hallway, rubbing her fingers against the cool plastic covered card. Pity was swelling in her chest more than she cared to admit as she watched the odd man disappear. Glancing back at the card she flipped it around and read the back.

It's a medical condition causing sudden, frequent, and uncontrollable laughter that doesn't match with how you feel. It can happen in people with a brain injury or certain neurological conditions. 

Thank you!

She looked up when she heard Washington clear her throat. The social worker raised an eyebrow and motioned towards the only other chair in the room.

"Let's get started, Miss. Black."

The sky had grown dark and heavy as a cluster of black rain clouds hovered over the city, a faint rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. Yanking the hood of his jacket over his head Arthur left the building with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He massaged his sore throat, feeling weak for not being able to control the condition that had plagued him for years. His mother told him that this wasn't his fault, that it was a condition he was born with. Even going as far as saying it was a gift from God, that it was a sign that he was meant to bring joy and laughter to the world. The doctors told him he could learn to manage it, that they had medications that might be able to help assist him, but still, the laughter was there. 

It would always come out at the worst of times if he wasn't careful like it had happened now. He had been caught off guard, he thought he had been alone. Lost in his head thinking about a joke he had been meticulously constructing in his head throughout the day, he was so close to getting the punch line right when he noticed her. The moment he saw that woman watching him from the door he felt his stomach lurch and the burning sensation of the laughs threatening to crawl out of his mouth. He tried-God, he tried so hard to keep a straight face, to just have a normal conversation with someone, but the feeling was still there. The more he thought about it the worst it got until finally, he couldn't control it.

And then he remembered her face. He remembered how she looked at him with concern as the fit came over him-maybe he was remembering it wrong. No, it couldn't have been concern. She must have been afraid. Yes. After all, what normal person would tolerate an outburst like that?

His pace quicken, wanting to run away from his thoughts.

Around him, the city's nightlife had begun to come out of the cracks as the street lights began to flicker on. Prostitutes stood languidly next street corners wearing flashy, revealing clothing. Their faces painted with dark eye shadows and vibrant lips. Groups of people walked right over him, bumping him in the shoulders but paying no more attention to him than they would to a piece of trash rolling on the sidewalk. As Arthur cut across the street he could hear the soft strumming of a guitar and the sorrowful song of a street performer who was stationed next to a scrappy Chinese restaurant. Patrons of the restaurant either ignored the performer completely or would throw a few coins of spare change in front of them.

Arthur took little to no notice of the life around him, these were sights he had seen before, sights he would be always an outsider to. He sometimes felt like an alien amongst humans, trying always to connect and integrate seamlessly into the masses but there was always something that would make him stand out, make him unappealing to others. Part of him began to accept that this was his life, that if it had been like this for thirty-five years than why wouldn't it be like this for the rest of his days? 

Yet there was the other side of him. The one who clung onto that thin shred of hope that things would get better. That all of the pain he felt would be worth it in the end when he made it as a comedian. He could almost feel the warmth of the stage lights tickling his skin along with the applause and laughter of a unseen audience.

Despite himself, Arthur began to smile at the fantasy.

Arthur's hand toyed with the prescription slip in his pocket. He would need to stop at the pharmacy before he went home, maybe pick up some milk and cigarettes if he had enough money left. 

Looking up Arthur saw the bus stop within a block's distance, but up ahead he noticed a small group of people standing and pointing to a pile of garbage that was piled next to the road. Curiosity peaked, Arthur moved in closer. As he got closer he saw a stiff leg laying on the sidewalk and then he saw a body of a homeless man lying on the concrete surrounded by garbage, laying under a filthy beach towel as a blanket with an empty bottle of gin clutched in his stiff hand. His skin was grey and sullen, his mouth hung agape showing rotten, yellowed teeth. A rat began to crawl over his leg before disappearing into the pile of rubbish.

"Is he dead?" A woman asked.

Her companion nudged the body with his foot. "Think so."

"Should we call an ambulance? The police?" Another asked.

"Think he was a drunk." Someone else muttered before walking off.

Arthur simply stared at the dead body, for a moment the features of the man blurred away and he saw himself lying there. His long leg stretch stiff in an awkward position, his grey eyes open and glazed over as he looked up to the cold sky, rats climbing over his body. Dead. Forgotten. People walking by without a single thought, not knowing nor caring who he was.

He didn't want that. He didn't want to be like this man. He wanted someone to care that he was dead, someone that would cry for him, someone that would miss him.

Turning his head away, Arthur walked to the bus stop to wait for the bus home.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't go on any further.

Nicolette leaned against the wall of the stairway that wound up her apartment building. She ran a hand over her damp face, wondering why she wouldn't get over her damn fear of the poorly maintained death trap known as the elevator. 

Looking down at her aching feet she muttered weak words of encouragement.

"Come on. Two more. Two more floors." She panted.

It still wasn't enough. Her legs felt remained stiff and unyielding. Instead she began to think of what was to come that night. Another night of doing something she actually enjoyed, playing music, even if people didn't know who she was or cared about what she was playing she would be there in the shadows letting her fingers glide over the smooth ivory keys of the old piano. She could hear the music now, the sweet tunes tickling her ears. Nicolette hummed the tune to herself, feeling a bit of energy coming back to her. She could do it, she thought. If it meant getting to that moment then she could keep going for a little longer.

With that in mind she forced unwilling legs into motion she continued up the steps to the six-floor.

Continuing her climb Nicolette thought about the appointment with the social worker. If she was honest she thought she could have done without going back there. The questions Washington had asked her were the run of the mill questions she remembers the doctors would do to her at the hospital. How do you feel about life? Do you have hope for the future? You happy with your job? For most of those questions she did what she always had done, she lied. Nicolette learned had learned along time ago it was better to tell people what they want to hear than to tell the truth. It didn't really matter to her if she got better, she would find a way to manage through-she always did, what mattered to her more was people leaving her alone. 

The appointment had ended with Washington producing a blue spiral note book from a box next to her desk. She had explained that it was a common therapy tool they used there, that the notebook was meant to be a "safe" place to write down what she thought or felt without feeling judged. 

"We can start going over it in the next session." Washington said as she scribbled down a few notes. 

"Going over it?" Nicolette asked. 

Washington glanced up at her. "Yes. Going over it. To talk about any issues that you may have and we'll see what we can do."

At that moment Nicolette made up her mind that she wouldn't write anything in that damn notebook.

Coming back to reality, Nicolette realized she had finished the trek up the stairs. She could have cried in joy if it wasn't for the sight of her neighbor pounding on her apartment door. 

Her neighbor, Mr. Clark, was an older man with a beer gut that made him look nine months pregnant. His ruddy face was scrunched up in fury as he slammed his fist onto the door, letting out every curse he couldn't think of.

Nicolette stood frozen on the stairs like a frightened animal. A fresh wave of anxiety washed over her as she prepared for the storm that she was about to face. She had dealt with Mr. Clark before, each time more unpleasant than the last. All of this was normally related to any noise she and her roommate might create, more so on her roommate's part. It seemed like no matter how many times she had apologized on both of their behalfs Mr. Clark would show no mercy.

Scrounging up any remnants of courage she might have had in her Nicolette cautiously approached the man. She paused a few feet away from him and cleared her throat, barely catching his attention over his curses.

"Mr. Clark." She spoke shakily.

Mr. Clark stopped abruptly, his nostrils flared out making him resemble an angry cow. 

"Finally," He snarled. "Tell your bitch of roommate to turn that damn television off!"

Without him causing a racket with his curses and knocking, Nicolette could finally hear the wailing of Cab Calloway's voice leaking through the walls and into the hallway. Her face flushed in embarrassment. Muttering apologies and excuses meekly Nicolette fumbled for her keys so she could run and hide in her apartment from the volatile man.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Clark. It won't happen again." She said hastily as she unlocked the door.

"Bullshit." He shot back. "It's the same bullshit all the time with you and that whore. If I have to deal with this one more time I'll come in there and bust that TV right out the-"

Quickly she ran into the apartment and slammed the door. She rested against the frame for a moment, nearly expecting him to start up again. But like a dog who was tired of barking, Mr. Clark retreated back to his own apartment with a deliberate slam of his door. Relief spread throughout her body, closing her eyes Nicolette took a few deep breaths telling herself that everything was fine. Blinking her eyes open she looked towards the living room of the small, open-spaced apartment to find her roommate sprawled on the couch with a beer and watching a Betty Boop cartoon as if she hadn't noticed a thing that had happened outside their door.

Nicolette grimaced. She tossed her bag down with a thump, gaining the attention of her roommate, Angelica "call-me-Angie" Romeraz.

Angie lifted her head off the arm of the couch, taking a sip of her beer before asking Nicolette what took her so long?

"You're Miss Punctual." Angie teased as she watched Nicolette rush into her room to grab the bag that contained her work clothes. "If you're gonna start running late then we both might end up getting fired."

"I had that appointment remember?" Nicolette yelled back. "And turn the damn TV down!"

Angie rolled her eyes, flopping off the couch to turn the television off. Nicolette emerged from her room with duffle bag, brushing past her roommate to take a look at herself in the mirror that hung near their door. Nicolette frowned at herself. Her round cheeks were blotted red and her dark hair was straying out of the tight bun she tied it in. Yanking the scrunchie out Nicolette released her long thick hair, shaking it out before combing it with her fingers. She continued to inspect herself as she worked her hair, scrutinizing the dark circles that framed her brown eyes from the long workdays and restless nights. She noticed how much paler she looked. Was she sick? She caught a glimpse of Angie walking behind her through the mirrors reflection, her mascara was smudged under her eyes and her clothing was all askew but she somehow managed to pull the look off. Nicolette wondered if she would ever be able to be like that? Be someone who didn't care what others thought and did what she liked. Maybe in another life she would get lucky.

"You almost ready?" Nicolette called over her shoulder.

"In a minute, mom." 

Nicolette shook her head with a weary sigh.

She and Angie worked at the same club, The Rabbit's Hole, a sort of burlesque show where people from all walks of life showed up. One minute you could be entertaining men that rubbed shoulders with Waynes or Cobblepots and the next minute you could have an unruly bus driver on your ass begging for a lap dance. Angie was a dancer there. She was tall and lean with slight muscular definition. Her skin was a smooth tan color, her eyes dark green, and her black hair cut into a short boyish look so it wouldn't get in the way when she was performing. She had the personality too, she owned the stage and all the people in the room. Angie radiated all the take no bullshit confidence that Nicolette could never muster. 

Nicolette herself wasn't a dancer at the club and she was thankful for that. She'd probably have died under the callous eyes of the hungry crowd. Her job was to play the piano in the small band that resided in the shadow of the stage. Compared to her day job that was paradise. Her music is what people wanted, not her, that was something she could give them. 

Finishing up her bun, Nicolette looked down at the small table underneath the mirror, spotting a pile of unopened mail. At least Angie was on top of one thing regularly. 

Nicolette flipped through the mail taking note of all the bills she would have to pay soon, pausing when she caught sight of the familiar scrawled cursive writing of her father. Nicolette stared at the slightly smudged writing on the letter for a long time, her heart twitched as guilt crept in as she thought about how she hadn't made time to see him in those last few weeks. Things just seemed to pile up those days, barely giving her a chance to breath let alone think about taking a few hours to make the commute to the hospital to visit him. Carefully she tucked the letter in the pocket of her jacket, telling herself she would read it later and figure out when she would visit. 

As she did so her hand bumped into something small and smooth in the pocket. It took her a moment to realize it was that little card the man, Arthur, had given her before his sudden departure. 

Nicolette pulled the card out and examined it once more, flipping it back and forth between her fingers. Angie had finally grabbed her own items and began pulling on her denim jacket as she strode towards her roommate, catching a glimpse at the card.

"What's that? A business card?" 

Nicolette shook her head. "No. Some guy gave it to me today when I went to the social worker's office."

She passed the card over to Angie. She read both sides of the card, snorting a bit at what it said.

"All sorts of weirdos out there." Angie chuckled tossing the card onto the table. "You don't believe it do you? Like, what if this is some ploy to make people feel bad for him or get attention? How pathetic would that be?"

Nicolette didn't reply. Angie hadn't seen the look in his eyes, the fear, the shame. Something about it was so real, it wasn't something you could fake. At least to her knowledge.

"Come on." Angie persisted, slapping Nicolette's shoulder. "We need to catch a cab."

As Angie headed for the door, Nicolette took one last look at the little card, reading the line that said Please return to owner. Eventually she turned away from the plastic card and shoved it from her mind as she followed her roommate out the door. 


	2. Chapter Two: A Bit of Compassion

Six days later...

A ghost watched her from the mirror. The chalk-white face blended in with the grimmy white tiles of the restroom, her dark eyes outlined in black eyeliner and red wine lips stood broad against the colorless face. Her ears filled with the rumble of the ventilation system, the sound reminded her of a pestering insect that wouldn't leave you alone.

Nicolette brought up a washcloth and began to scrub harshly at her face to remove the makeup. A woman next to her with similar makeup did the same in her mirror.

"Fuck, I've got another one." The woman muttered. 

Nicolette glanced over to see her fidgeting with a hard red bump on a clean spot of her cheek. Saying nothing, she went back to cleaning her face.

Outside the bathroom she could hear the traffic of people flowing in and out of the dressing room, all getting ready to walk off into the night and return to their lives outside of the Wonderland facade they played a role in. Nicolette herself was thankful her shift was coming to an end, her body felt heavy and all she could think about was those sweet hours of rest she would get once she was home. Next to her, the woman finished cleaning her face before slapping the washcloth down and fluffing up her bouncy curls.

"I got to get new strings." The woman said to no one in particular. "My fucking violin sounds like a cat in heat."

"It wasn't that bad," Nicolette said to her bandmate. "Maybe you need to rosin your bow up a bit more."

The woman glanced at her and shrugged. "Don't know...I just wish I had the money to buy a better one."

The violinist then collected her items and went into a stall to change out of her costume, the sound of the stall door slamming shut echoed through the empty room. Nicolette looked back at her reflection; her face was partially washed leaving a clump of white stage paint around her right eye and forehead, her eyebrow was painted slick in black to give them a more exaggerated arch. Her full lips still retained a stubborn tint of the lipstick as well. She tugged at the white collar of her costume, the same she and the rest of the band players dressed in. It was part of the Rabbit Hole's work attire, everyone had to become someone else there, even the waitresses would dress in outlandish outfits and wear varying masks over their faces. For the band, they were all dressed in white dress shirts, black vests and pants with polished black laced shoes-heeled ones for the women. The finishing touch was the Pierrot like makeup, making them look like comical characters out of a silent film.

Nicolette took one more moment to admire what was left of the makeup. She wouldn't deny that she loved this part of the job, maybe not more than playing her music, but it was a close second. It reminded her when she was young, the time before her mother had died, she would go into her mother and father's room to raid the vanity where her mother kept her makeup. She recalled the ridiculous characters she had conjured up as she smeared the lipstick and powder over her skin, blotting away the dull reality of life with bits of color. She could still hear her mother's laugh, a mixture of amusement and horror if she recalled correctly. The memory brought a bitter smile to her stained lips.

The halls of the apartment building were nearly silent as Nicolette climbed the stairs, hearing faint voices coming through the walls every so often giving her a small hint at the lives of the other residents. She could hear a baby crying as a man and woman argued, the static voices coming out of a radio, the occasional laughs of people finding some joy in this hell. 

She had gone back to the apartment alone, Angie had decided to go out with some of her friends for the rest of the night. It was considered the norm between them in the short time the two have lived together. Even then it didn't stop Nicolette's stomach from turning as she walked the cold, dark streets alone; anxiously waiting for the bus to arrive as her mind conjured up lurking figures in the shadows of the street lights, or maybe they were real. She couldn't be sure anymore.

Reaching the door to their apartment Nicolette eyeballed the chipped paint beginning to flake off, her eyes glossing over the numbers centered just below the peephole. It didn't feel real. This didn't feel like home, but it was now, something she had to remind herself often. She and Angie had only lived together for three weeks, it had been a situation of convenience. They worked together, Angie needed a roommate to cover whatever expenses she couldn't and Nicolette needed a place to live. Yes, it was convenient, but was it ideal? No. Not by a long shot.

Walking in she flicked on the lights, they stuttered on revealing the small pathetic hole that was her home. It had an open set -up where the kitchen and living room combined into one large room, a worn-down yellow sofa sat in the center of the room with crumpled up magazines and beer bottles laying around it. Nicolette scrunched her nose as the scent of the day-old dishes and coffee grounds assaulted her senses. 

Shrugging her baggy blue jacket off she mentally smacked herself for not keeping on top of the chores, for letting things slip into these conditions, but she had been so tired this week. One thing after another kept popping up and her priority had to be switched every other minute, her head was aching just thinking about it.

Nicolette hung the jacket up and went to her room to take her medication. Her room was humbled, by all means, the only furniture was her twin bed pushed into the left corner of the room and a small wooden nightstand with a lamp on it. A small closet hid behind the entrance of the door containing all of her clothes and the few boxes she hadn't unpacked yet. 

Shuffling through the darkness, Nicolette felt for the cord to the lamp, giving it a hard tug to turn it on once finding it. Pulling the drawer of the nightstand open, two little orange bottles were sent rattling towards the back. She grabbed them both to check the names before choosing the one for night time. 

Sitting down on her bed she screwed open the bottle, shaking two little white pills out. As she popped the pills into her mouth, an object poking out from the under the bed caught her eye. Glancing down she saw the neck-like shape of her violin case peeking out from under the bed; it's old black leather looked faded from years of use. A thin coat of dust had begun to form on it as well. Nicolette quickly kicked the case back with her foot, wanting it out of her sight before the memories attached to it could surface.

Springing up from the bed she went back into the main room to check for any messages left on the phone. Unbuttoning her shirt as she walked she ran through the things she needed to get done for tomorrow. Go to work. Go to the store after work. Drop some bills off in a mailbox. There was something else. She knew there was something else she needed to get done but her mind couldn't recall what. She tried to shrug it off. It couldn't be that important if she couldn't remember it. 

Passing by the phone she hit the button to start the answering machine and continued to the kitchen to grab a drink. 

"You have one message." It droned before playing the recording. 

"Nicolette? Hi, honey, it's Nora." Nicolette stopped at the saccharine voice of her aunt. Her body shuddered as a reaction to it. All desire to consume anything was gone now. "Your uncle and I just wanted to check up on you - you know, about how therapy is going." Nicolette almost smacked herself in the head. That was it, the therapy session. "So call us when you have a chance...And oh! If you're up for it we can talk about working out a plan for you to pay us back for those...Well those, 'expenses'. Now don't worry I'm sure we'll-"

"Message deleted."

Nicolette acted as if the message hadn't happened and began to rummage around in the pile of mail they had that day.

Coming to the end of the pile of mostly junk mail she caught a glimpse of the edge of the little laminated card. Nicolette paused before pulling it out from the pile. The thought of that man came flooding back to her, his name was Arthur if she remembered correctly, accompanied by a heavy feeling within her stomach.

The look in his eyes came back to her, the pale grey eyes swirled with shame for something he, supposedly, couldn't control. The thought only added to the mountain of pity she had developed for the man. 

Tapping the card against her lips Nicolette fought with herself about giving it back to him. Any normal person probably would have discarded the matter by now. In the grand scheme of things, it was just a trivial little matter, but to her, it meant something a bit more. She placed herself in Arthur's position and imagined what it must be like to experience what he did. After all, she wasn't 'normal', at least that's what she was told countless times by her family. She would consider herself a hypocrite if she didn't at least give him a bit of compassion. 

Forget about it for fuck sakes, her mind snapped at her. Forget about this pity party you have for this guy and get a grip over your own life!

Despite that voice in her mind she still wanted to do what was right, at least in her heart. Nicolette made up her mind, if she saw him tomorrow at the social worker's office she would give it back to him. If not then she would throw it away. Either way, it would bring a bit of closure knowing she had attempted to do something.

Why were Fridays always the busiest days? 

Well, next to Saturdays.

The soft orange light of the morning burst through the wide windows of the dressing room of HaHa's, giving the dismal space a slightly brighter appearance. Arthur sat at the makeup table running a wide flat brush loaded with white face paint down his hollow cheek. He did it slowly, taking great care to cover any bare skin he could see before he dropped the brush and took up a makeup sponge to get rid of the streaks the brush had left behind. Behind him, he could hear the sound of cards being shuffled out amongst a group of co-workers who were having a quick round of poker before they prepared for whatever jobs they had that day.

Blocking out the noise around him, Arthur ran today's gigs through his head. First, he had a gig at a children's toy shop that had opened up at the mall uptown. He would be doing some magic tricks and giving out balloon animals there until noon. Then he would have to hop on the train to get across town to make it for a birthday party around two o'clock. By the time he was finished he might have an hour, maybe two, to take a few moments to breathe before he went to his meeting with his social worker.

He hummed to himself, pleased by the even appearance of the greasepaint. He then took a smaller brush, swirled it around a pot of teal blue, and began to do the outlines of the triangles around his eyes. 

Arthur took his time painting his face, he wanted everything to be just right. He wanted to cover any trace of Arthur Fleck, allowing his normal identity to slip away as he dons the cheerful and colorful face of Carnival the clown. Dressed as Carnival, Arthur found he could find a bit of happiness and get outside of his mind, even for a brief moment. The times when he was able to bring light to a child's eye or earn a small quirk of the smile from a passerby was something Arthur cherished. If only he was able to get those fleeting moments of warmth more often. 

The streets were cold in Gotham and so were the people. It wasn't uncommon for him to be at the bad end of a punchline-both figuratively and literally. There would be days where he would have hecklers or people just finding it funny to fuck with the clown for shits and giggles. Then there were other days where he would come home defeated and weak-maybe from the physical and emotional exertion, it took to act happy and peppy all the time. Or maybe he would take a beating. It was fifty-fifty nowadays.

In spite of it all, Arthur still loved his job.

Most days.

Once he was finished with his face Arthur began to move on to get his costume. Pulling off his white t-shirt Arthur heard a few mutters coming from the card table behind him and then a short uproar of laughter. Arthur didn't look back. He didn't want to know if they were laughing at him or something else. He went to his locker and began to put on his costume. 

Slipping on the mismatched pieces of clothing Arthur heard light, uneven footsteps approach behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the small form of Gary, lugging a bag nearly as large as his small frame, huffing and puffing before he dropped the bag onto the bench. Catching his breath Gary looked up to Arthur, offering a polite nod. 

"Need any help, Gary?" Arthur asked as he buttoned up his mustard yellow vest.

Gary shook his head quickly. "No...No, I got it. Thanks, Arthur." He added as he plopped down on the bench to regain his composure. 

Before he turned away Arthur saw a new form enter through the dull seafoam archway to the room. First, it was the bulbous belly and then the pug-like face of another clown, Randal.

Randal smirked about him as he strolled in, towering over most of the people in the room. 

"Morning, ladies." He said. "Bit early for gambling, ain't it?"

The man dealing snorted. "That's funny coming from you, Randal." 

Randall gave a boisterous chuckle as he strode to his locker, taking a moment to give the fatigued dwarf an overemphasized once over. "Jesus Gary, do you need an escalator now to get up here? Oh-" He quickly pointed over to Gary's locker. "While we're at it, why don't we get you a ladder to reach your lock?"

A few people chuckled at the joke. Arthur himself gave a quick high pitched laugh, pretending he found it amusing as well. Gary rolled his eyes unimpressed with Randal's cheap shots.

"Very funny." The small man muttered, hopping off the bench and waddling over to his locker. 

Arthur cast a quiet look of sympathy at Gary. A bit of shame bubbled in him for laughing at the joke, even if it was fake. 

"Eh, Arthur." Arthur turned to look at Randal who was shuffling through his locker to grab his make-up. "I wanted to give you a quick heads up." Randal paused, throwing a look over his shoulder to act like he was making sure no one was listening before he continued. "I overheard Hoyt talking to someone on the phone and your name was mentioned."

An icy flash of panic flashed in Arthur's chest. "What was it about?"

Randal shrugged carelessly. "Don't know. Got a feeling something of yours got canceled."

Arthur's swallowed hard, glancing down at his form and considered the hard work it took to get ready for the day ahead. 

"Did you hear which one?" He pushed on.

"Well, it's not too much of my concern, Artie." Randal sighed, pulling out his costume from his locker and slamming it shut, the noise made Arthur flinch. "Go ask Hoyt yourself."

Arthur stood still; his body tensed up. He was hoping to whatever universal force there was that it was a mistake. He was looking forward to the payout from the two gigs, it would be more than enough to buy a little extra food for him and his mother for the next few days while still covering the normal expenses they might have. Steadying himself with a deep breath, Arthur walked stiff-legged to his boss's office.

The narrow hallway felt smaller as he walked; the colors of the various posters hanging on the walls looked duller than he recalled. Maybe it was the lighting. He paused at the open door, hearing Hoyt's voice grunt responses to someone over the phone. Pushing himself forward, Arthur stepped into the office, knocking gently on the door.

Hoyt whipped his head up, the phone still connected to his ear. The man held up a finger to Arthur and continued to speak on the phone. Arthur stood patiently, his hands clasped in front of him making him look like a schoolboy waiting to speak to the teacher. His grey eyes wandered around the cluttered room, looking at the piles of papers and stacks of random props that laid around like in an I-Spy book. The smell of cigarettes and alcohol became more noticeable as Arthur stood there.

"M'kay. Call you later...M'kay." Hoyt said to the phone before slamming it down. He groaned, running a hand through his greying hair before he looked at Arthur. "The clown I wanted to see. Come over here, got some bad news for you."

Obediently, Arthur took a few steps closer.

Hoyt sighed, drumming his fingers harshly on the mental desk. "Well Arthur, looks like the gig for the mall is off."

Arthur felt his face drop an inch. "What-why? Did they change their minds-"

Hoyt shook his head. "No. Someone vandalized the place, turned it into a shithole. They're holding off on the grand opening until they get it back together." Pausing, Hoyt took a cigarette out and lit it before adding in a patronizing tone, "Don't worry, Artie, I'm sure they'll call back for you."

Arthur remained silent, his eyes flickering up to the clock on the wall. It was only seven-forty, he wouldn't need to be ready for the birthday party for another six hours.

Stuttering a bit Arthur asked what he should do?

Hoyt rolled his eyes. "How the fuck should I know? Go clean yourself up and go waste your time for a bit-get a coffee, fuck a prostitute, whatever floats your boat!" 

The phone rang. Hoyt whipped his hand out to pick it up. 

"What do want?" He yelled into the receiver before his face quickly fell and he changed his tone. "Oh, hi honey didn't mean to yell at you like that..." Hoyt looked up one more time to Arthur, jerking his thumb at the door, silently telling him to fuck-off.

Leaving the office, Arthur began to walk without knowing where his feet were taking him. His eyes which had been placid a moment ago now swirled like dark clouds of a storm rolling in. The laughter from the changing room sounded garbled and distant as he passed by, his legs taking him to the only bathroom they had in the building. Arthur shoved the door open, banging it against the wall as he entered, the air heavy with a foul smell. Arthur closed the door, locking it shut as the bluish-white light flickered above him. Fat black flys bounced against it as they tried in vain to go towards the light, their incessant buzzing filled his ears. Arthur leaned against the door his hand curling into a tight fist against it before he pulled back giving it a fast punch. Pain shot through his knuckles, but he repeated the action. And again. 

Arthur had to force himself to stop as his knuckles became red, his heart pounding against his sternum. Arthur sucked in a mouth full of air. He took a step back, his body bumping into the rusted sink behind him. He turned to face the mirror. His brown locks were splayed over his forehead, sticking into the white greasepaint, his painted eyebrows furrowed together. The wide scarlette grin looked menacing now, not the silly friendly grin that it was designed to be. It was coming apart, the mask of Carnival-the happy, carefree clown-had now morphed into something else.

Arthur didn't tear his eyes away from his reflection as he tore off a long strip of paper towels, he soaked them in water before he took it to his face, scrubbing with such force that he would leave his skin red and numb. 

"How have things been for you lately?"  
"It's been fine, I guess."  
"How's your job?"  
"Normal."

Washington nodded, drifting to the next question. "Did you contact your doctor about upping your dosage?"

Arthur hummed, his head bobbing slowly. "Yeah, I did."

There was a pause, Arthur's gaze was somewhere else, avoiding eye contact with Washington. The social worker sat straight across from him, her own fatigued eyes watched him waiting for him to finish his response, but it never came.

"Did they say something, Arthur?" She prodded.

Arthur puffed out his cheeks as he ran through his hair to push it back. "They put me on another medication." 

Washington shuffled through a pile of papers on the side of her desk. "Do you remember the name?"

"Mep...Mep-rob-a-mate?" He spoke slowly trying to get the name right. "I don't know. They just said it could help with my anxiety."

How many was that now? Seven? It didn't make sense to him anymore - if the ones he was taking now weren't working what difference did it make to add another one to the cocktail? Maybe they were hoping he would down all the pills at once and finish his miserable life.

Arthur didn't attempt to push that thought away; he allowed it to wallow in his mind as the session continued. 

"Have you been working on your journal?" Washington asked as she wrote.

Arthur nodded.

Not looking up she asked, "Do you have it on you?" 

Arthur hesitated. "No", he lied. "Left it at home."

Washington glanced up at him but said nothing. Arthur felt relief when she didn't push further. He was enjoying the journal she had provided him, it had become a safe place for him to write whatever thoughts drifted through his mind. It also doubled as a place to work on his comedy material. Whatever jokes he had worked out in his mind or little observations he saw that he thought could be used in some form of a comedy skit he would hastily scribble down before they disappeared. It felt nice, having a place to keep his ideas in and to let out any negative thought.

But there were things in there that he didn't want anyone to see. Things that came out in his darker moments, things he knew if people saw they would shrink away, maybe call him crazy behind his back. The thought brought on the burning sensation in his throat, but he managed to keep himself under control, forcing that dreadful feeling back down into the shadows.

The session seemed to drag on; Arthur felt no desire to be there. His mind kept wandering, creating long pauses that would have stretched on if Washington didn't prod him to get him to speak. When forty-five minutes passed Washington pinched the bridge of her nose and said they did enough for today.

"Try to remember your journal next time, alright?"

Mumbling a response Arthur stood up and grabbed his jacket, folding it over his arm and went to the door. His eyes were cast down to the floor as he left the office, not noticing the person sitting in one of the plastic chairs by the door until they cleared their throat.

"Pardon?"

Arthur stopped mid-step, he recognized the voice. Turning back he saw the woman from last week standing up from the chair, a sheepish smile laid on her lips. 

"Arthur, right?"

She remembers my name, he thought in a mixture of surprise and mild horror. 

Arthur shuffled his feet, his free hand went behind his head to rub the back of his neck. "Um...Yeah. And you're...Nicolette?"

She nodded, her smile seemed to have gotten a bit brighter. "You remembered."

Arthur opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. What should he say? Hey, I'm sorry for being a freak last time we met? 

Nicolette shifted around for a moment before she muttered something that he couldn't understand and dug a hand into the pocket of her jeans, pulling something out.

"Well...You left in such a hurry last time that you forgot your card." She explained, holding the object out before him.

He almost wanted to pinch himself to make sure this was real. Tentatively he took the card from her, his calloused fingers brushed against hers ever so slightly, but it was enough to send a heated rush through him. His eyes absorbed her face as she took a step back, the little smile was still there and somehow it reached her eyes.

Arthur wasn't sure how long he had been looking at her before she nodded her head slightly, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I should get going." She said getting ready to leave.

Snapping out of his daze Arthur's mouth began to spew out an apology.

"Wait-I'm...I want to say, I'm sorry, for last time." He said quickly, taking an unintentional step towards her.

Nicolette's lips tightened into the straight line and she shrugged. 

"Don't worry about it...I mean you can't control it, right?" She asked, motioning to the card in his hand. 

Dumbly, Arthur nodded.

Nicolette gave a breathy laugh, something that sounded oddly endearing to him. "Then don't worry about." 

All Arthur could manage was a faint 'okay' as Nicolette walked into the office, turning once to give him a short wave goodbye before she closed the door behind her leaving Arthur standing dumbstruck in the hall.

In the silence of the hall Arthur only realized how loud his heart was beating. A throbbing warmth spread through his chest at the small act of kindness. It was probably the first genuine gesture he had experienced in years. His mind began to replay the scene exaggerating her smile, her face became sweeter in his memory and her voice-he wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear his name tumble from her lips.

Slowly walking out of the building Arthur toyed with the card, a true smile creeping into the corner of his mouth as he basked in the feeling that was coursing through his body. These feelings alone made up for whatever happened today, making any anger or sadness he held fade away.

As he went home Arthur had only one thing on his mind; he wanted to see her again. He wanted to talk to her.

"How was your week?"  
"Fine."  
"Work?"  
"Both are doing good."  
"Taking your medication?"  
"Yes."

Washington scribbled down short notes as they spoke. Nicolette was slumped in the metal chair, her thumb rubbing against the coarse material of the bag in her lap. She was watching her social worker with mild interest, wondering what she was writing down in the file.

"Sorry for asking, but why are you guys doing therapy sessions?" She asked. "I mean, social workers typically don't do this right?"

Washington paused and looked at her, almost surprised she had asked her anything at all. "Well, no. Not normally. We've been experiencing one too many budget cuts and things around here had to...Adapt." 

Nicolette nodded, looking down at her bag.

Washington cleared her throat and looked back to the file. "How is your relationship with your family?"

At the word, 'family' Washington noted her patient's body visibly tense, the meekness fading quickly from her face. 

"Which ones?" She asked.

Washington shrugged. "What about your father? It mentions in the file the unusual upbringing you had after your mother's death. Does it affect how you feel towards him?"

Nicolette gnawed at the inside of her cheek before she spoke carefully, her voice having a slight strain to it. "My childhood was fine. My father was and is a caring man, he took care of me and protected me as any father should."

Washington pushed further. "Isn't it true after your mother's suic-"

"Death." Nicolette spoke up, an edge making its way into her tone.

"Death." Washington corrected herself. "After her death, didn't your father become withdrawn?"

Nicolette laughed humorlessly. "Perhaps. Isn't that normal?"

"For some yes, but didn't he-"

"Can we not talk about this?" Nicolette snapped, her eyes flickering up to meet the social worker's. "There's nothing wrong between my father and I, in fact, I plan on visiting him soon when I get the chance. Is that good enough for your report?"

The two women watched each other, neither saying anything, both trying to gauge what the other's next move was. After a few moments of tension, Washington simply made a few notes and moved on to the next question. After all, she was a social worker first, not a psychologist.


End file.
